


Disaster Managment

by Princip1914



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens All Media Works
Genre: (in hell), Apocalypse simulation, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute, Satire, Smoking, Wing Kink, hard to go on a first date, oblique references to COVID 19, reimagining of the GO apocalypse as a global pandemic, so take that how you will, the apocalypse is a major cockblock, when all romantic locations are about to become a puddle of goo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914
Summary: “Welcome to the latest round of Disaster Management,” Gabriel boomed, a manic grin on his face.Beezulbub walked over to one of the microphones on the SUPERIOR LEADERSHIP table and flicked it with their fingers. The assembled demonic swarms and angelic hosts winced collectively as feedback screeched through the auditorium.“You are the dizzzasters, we are the management,”  Beezulbub intoned straight into the microphone. “Now you had better end the world by Friday so that I don’t miss chicken finger day in the cafeteria.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 46
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Apocalypse Now

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story in April, and it almost feels surreal to be publishing it now. So much has happened in my own life and in the life of the world since I wrote the first chapter. Editing this chapter has been like a look back at a snapshot in time, albeit one that was really not very long ago. 
> 
> This story is a product of a post COVID world. Privately, I think of it as Rom Com Meet Cute in Hell crossed with Satire of Global Pandemic. So, all this to say, there ARE references to COVID here, although they are all quite oblique. If you want to know what they are ahead of time, I have added a final chapter (titled Postscript) which you can check out right now for a list of everything serious that this story makes light of. I am not putting this list in the endnotes of this chapter because some things on the list may be spoilers for later moments in the fic. 
> 
> Many thanks to [The Old Aquarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOldAquarian) for being incredibly patient with my inability to stick to a schedule, providing fantastic beta services, and making this story a thousand times more hilarious and sharp.

Aziraphale’s kilt itched. This sensation was not, overall, the worst thing he anticipated encountering today. However, it was the hardest to ignore. Aziraphale squirmed, crammed into the back corner of the rapidly descending lift, and tried discretely to scratch his upper thighs. “I think I’m allergic to wool,” he muttered to a nearby seraph. 

“What’s wool?” the seraph asked. “Anyway, you ought to be quiet. We’re almost there.” 

Aziraphale sighed. Of course he’d get stuck in a lift full of angels that were hell-bent (excuse the expression) on taking this exercise all too seriously. It was only a drill after all, and it happened every thousand years--an unusual occurrence, but hardly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Aziraphale couldn’t really fault his lift-mates, though. The seraphs all looked quite young, not one of them a day over six hundred. None of them had probably even seen a demon before, let alone been through an Apocalypse Simulation. 

The lift shuddered to a screeching halt and the doors flew open in a blast of hot air. “Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here!” intoned a bored-sounding voice over a crackling PA system. “Also, make sure to check out the gift shop when you leave.”

“Oooh, there’s a gift shop!” whispered another angel to Aziraphale’s right over the background nervous rustle of twenty pairs of wings. 

“Not worth your time I’m afraid,” Azriaphale said sadly. “They have those machines that are supposed to put little pictures on pennies, but as soon as you put your money in, it just turns to molten copper.”[1]

“Shhhhh,” hissed the first seraph with enough suppressed ire to put any decent public librarian to shame. Aziraphale cast his eyes skyward, or at least, up towards where the sky would be beyond the plain beige ceiling of the elevator and prayed for patience and a quick and painless End of the World. 

***

Crowley was, to put it mildly, having a Hell of a day.[2] “Look guys, I didn’t ask for this, ok?” Crowley said, holding up the orange and blue high-vis jacket between his index finger and thumb as if it might bite him. “Isn’t there someone else who could be Logistics Chief this go round?” 

Hastur gave him a ghastly grin. “The boss loves you, Crawley,” he said. 

“Always going on and on about your deeds of the day,” Ligur snickered. “Think you’re worse than the rest of us Crawley, now’s your chance to prove it.” 

“But guys,” Crowley tried. “This isn’t really my scene, you know. I’m more of a forward thinker--” 

“Your scene,” Hastur interrupted. 

“Your starring role,” Ligur continued. “You’ll report directly to the Incident Commanders on this one Crawley.” 

“All eyes on you,” Hastur said. The frog on his head blinked as if to emphasize the point. 

Crowley let out an annoyed hiss of breath. 

“Cheer up Crawley,” Ligur clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d give my right arm to be in your place right now. Or someone’s right arm anyway.” His eyes cut over to Eric, who was cheerfully whistling to himself as he hung up the last of a set of black drapes which haphazardly divided the back of Hell’s largest auditorium into makeshift cubicles.[3]

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Hastur said, catching Ligur around the collar as the other demon began to edge towards Eric with a hungry look in his eye. 

“Wankers,” Crowley said to their retreating forms, but only once they were safely out of earshot. He sighed and shrugged on the coat, wrinkling his nose as a certain odor wafted up. 

Crowley slithered towards the front of the room where there was a raised table that had been labeled with a sign stating in large block letters “SENIOR LEADERSHIP.” Directly in front of the raised table were two long rows of desks facing one another, arranged at ninety degrees to SENIOR LEADERSHIP. The first desk in one row was covered with cables, telephones, and three types of computer monitor, each from a different era of earth technology. There was also a cuneiform tablet, what appeared to be a Caesar Cipher, and a printer/faxer/scanner machine. A large sign taped to the front of the desk read “LOGISTICS CHIEF.” Below it, someone had thoughtfully taped up a smaller sign that bore the picture of a serpent twining around an apple tree. Crowley glanced up to see Eric giving him two thumbs up and a wide smile. 

“Thanks,” Crowley mouthed at him. 

Another version of Eric spawned suddenly at Crowley’s shoulder with a loud pop. 

“SENIOR LEADERSHIP asked me to boost morale!” Eric said, practically vibrating with excitement and somehow managing to convey the capital letters without raising his voice. “I’m going to be working right under you Crowley, I’m GENERAL ADMINISTRATIVE TASKS! Can you believe it? I got promoted!” 

“Great,” Crowley said glumly. 

“Crowley, can I just say it’s going to be a real displeasure to work with you,” Eric gushed. “I’ve been studying all your classic temptations.” 

“It’s really just the one,” Crowley said, staring down at the mess of phone lines and baked clay. 

“The original you mean,” Eric murmured, with a close approximation of reverence.[4]

“It means a lot Eric, it really does,” Crowley pulled out the chair and sat with a resigned thump.

“Also, I brought you these,” Eric extracted a crumpled packet of antimatter cigarettes from his breast pocket. “I saw you smoking one at the last staff meeting, thought you might need a few to keep you sharp today.” 

The packet of cigarettes was the first genuinely wonderful thing Crowley had seen all day. “Eric,” Crowley said fervently, picking it up just to smell it, “whatever they’re paying you, it’s not enough.” 

“Oh,” Eric said brightly, “they’re not paying me at all! I’m a volunteer. It’s all worth it just to get to be in the room you know. Golly, it’s all so exciting!” 

“Exciting,” Crowley said, trying out the feel of the word in his mouth. 

“Oh, I’ve got to tell you,” Eric leaned in conspiratorially and jerked his hair horns at the desk immediately across from Crowley’s which was utterly bare except for a sign labeled “PLANNING CHIEF.” “Guess what I did? I put a dog turd on the seat! I can’t wait to see the face of the angel who gets assigned to sit there!” 

“Very bad of you,” Crowley affirmed. Eric’s hair horns quivered in delight. 

Objectively bad, but not very creative, Crowley thought morosely as Eric hurried away to catch a poster (“Weird Eyes, Absent Hearts, Can’t Lose”) that was in danger of curling and falling down in Hell’s heat. He sighed and leaned back in the chair, too large jacket threatening to slip off his shoulders and puddle on the floor. This was going to be a very long Apocalypse indeed. 

***

Aziraphale and the other angels from the lift filed into what looked like it had once been an auditorium, but had been hastily converted into something resembling an open plan office. Demons and angels were already hard at work, bustling around the room, flitting in and out of the black curtains that divided the back of the auditorium into three sections. A raised table all the way at the opposite end of the room from the curtains bore a placard reading “SENIOR LEADERSHIP.” On the wall above the table, someone had scrawled in red spray paint the dripping words “Apocalypse Now.” Below it, in clear block print sharpie, someone else had added “Overtime Pay Later*” Aziraphale squinted and read in even smaller letters beneath the second line of text: “*Contingent on Success of Exercise.”

A low chorus of growls emanated from behind a curtain to which a piece of posterboard labeled “HELLHOUND KENNELLING & HANDLING” had been pinned. Suddenly, a burst of loud brassy noise from behind another curtain drowned out the growling. A demon with two unusual horns that appeared to be made out of his own hair rushed over. “Oi,” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard over the noise, “Herald Angels this way!” Most of the angels that had been in the lift with Aziraphale filed in the direction of the cacophony. The demon bustled after them and ushered them past the curtain before pinning a sign to it which read “ACOUSTICS AND AMBIANCE.”

Aziraphale sighed and looked down at the badge Gabriel had issued him back in the crisp neutral of head office. It read, “Planning Chief.” Aziraphale rubbed at his temples. He wasn’t truly corporeal right now, but headaches had a way of making themselves known regardless. He picked his way slowly down a row of desks trying to find the one with a sign that matched his badge. Most of the desks were full already, angels who had arrived early studiously going over notes, demons busy sticking gum to the bottoms of their desks and making fart noises at one another. At last, Aziraphale found his desk. He bit his lip and rustled his wings. His desk was the closest one to the high table and he couldn’t help but wonder if the extra scrutiny was still because of what had happened the very first time he had been assigned a leadership role in a Simulation. Well, Aziraphale supposed he deserved it. He pulled out the chair and was about to sit down and allow himself a few glorious moments of wallowing when the sound of a throat being loudly cleared disrupted him from his reverie. 

“Er, I wouldn’t sit there if I were you.” 

Aziraphale blinked. The voice came from the desk immediately across from his. The speaker was almost completely blocked from view except for a wave of artfully styled red hair and the tips of two very well groomed black wings that peaked out above an absurd pile of human communications technologies. Two hands emerged from the pile and parted the sea of monitors and telephones. Yellow eyes blinked up at him out of a face pinched by stress. The demon was wearing a ratty and too large high-vis jacket and an expression of abject misery. 

“Why shouldn’t I sit here?” Aziraphale asked, trying for supercilious and probably sounding very uncertain indeed. 

“Because Eric put a dog turd on your chair.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. 

“He’s the one who showed you guys in.” The demon tipped his head towards the door of the auditorium. The same demon with the large hair horns was now in a heated argument with a group of damned souls clamoring at the door. “I don’t care if they were going to be showing _Pirates of the Carribean 15_ again,” Eric was shouting. “Movie nights are cancelled for the foreseeable future. Now you’ve _got_ to move along back to the spit roasting department, or it’ll be my head on a pike instead of yours.” 

“He’s an alright sort,” the red haired demon continued. “Don’t take it personally.”

Aziraphale looked down at the chair, where there was indeed a steaming pile of dogshit waiting to be squelched by unsuspecting angelic buttocks. He miracled it away with a discrete wave and sat down.

“Thank you?” Aziraphale ventured. 

“Don’t go thanking me!” the demon looked alarmed. “If you start thanking me, I’ll be in even more trouble than I am now and I don’t even know how to bloody dial _out_ of this place on the phones!” 

“It's 9 1 and then whatever number you’re trying to reach,” Aziraphale said absently, adjusting the sign on his desk. He rather felt that it was a foreboding omen that he had been given no equipment whatsoever. 

“Oh thank Satan,” the demon muttered over a loud dial tone. “It worked.” 

“Say,” Aziraphale whispered loudly across the aisle between them. “Might I be able to borrow one of your writing implements? Maybe the tablet? I’ve got nothing over here, I’m sure it was just an oversight, but…” 

“Knock yourself out.” The demon handed an ipad across the empty space between them. Aziraphale blinked at him. Comprehension dawned in the demon’s yellow eyes and he passed Aziraphale the cuneiform tablet and stylus instead. 

“So, don’t get up to earth much then?” The demon asked, watching curiously as Aziraphale straightened the clay tablet on his desk. 

“I do,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Just sometimes the old ways of doing things work perfectly well. I would really prefer paper and a nice fountain pen, but I’ll make do.”

“Oh hang on, I think I have those too!” the demon dived down and rummaged in the bottom drawers of the desk. One hand emerged and tossed in quick succession what looked like a telegraph machine, a limited edition beanie baby, and a large ball of twine attached to two tin cans onto the surface of the desk. 

“Ah ha!” the demon shouted triumphantly, emerging from behind the desk with a handful of pens and pencils and a stained laboratory ledger. 

“Much appreciated,” Aziraphale said, taking the proffered objects. “Oh, hang on you’ve got--” he stood and leaned over both desks to brush a streak of dust off of the demon’s high cheekbone. The demon’s skin was cool and smooth beneath the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb. His yellow eyes had gone wide with surprise and his mouth hung open revealing two small fangs that were almost...cute. 

“Right then,” Aziraphale said, suddenly awkward and trying to cover it up in a burst of officiousness. “I’ll just, um--” at that moment, he realized he had no idea whatsoever what a Planning Chief was supposed to do. Aziraphale began a descent into panic far more rapid and a great deal more terrible than the lift ride down to Hell. Thankfully, the demon across from him shook himself free of whatever spell he had been under in time to interrupt Aziraphale’s exploration of an urgent theological question: can souls without bodies hyperventilate?[5]

“Crowley,” the demon said, extending his hand into the space between their desks. 

“What?” Aziraphale muttered, distracted by an age-old sense memory of packing up a whole shipment of flaming swords for delivery, Gabriel’s disappointed face flashing before his eyes. He could still feel the rough wood of the crates he had put them in beneath his palms as if it were yesterday. 

“My name’s Crowley. Some of the guys around here call me Crawley, but I’m kinda--” the demon made a face-- “phasing that out.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale took the demon’s hand. It was as cool as his cheek had been, but a bit sweatier. “I’m Aziraphale. Used to work on the Eastern Gate.” 

“Hang on,” Crowley said, still holding fast to Aziraphale’s hand, “We don’t know each other do we?”

But before Aziraphale could stammer out a reply, the door of the auditorium opened with a bang. Aziraphale dropped Crowley’s hand as if he had been shot. 

Beezulbub strode into the auditorium in a bright yellow work vest with the words INCIDENT COMMANDER stenciled messily in black paint on the back. Gabriel followed close behind them. He had forgone a yellow vest of his own and instead was wearing a Patagonia zip up fleece with INCIDENT COMMANDER embroidered on the left breast in glowing thread that was visible from across the room. 

“All right you lot, shape up!” Beezulbub shouted, striding up to the high table at the front of the room. 

“Welcome to the latest round of Disaster Management,” Gabriel boomed, a manic grin on his face. 

Beezulbub walked over to one of the microphones on the SUPERIOR LEADERSHIP table and flicked it with their fingers. The assembled demonic swarms and angelic hosts winced collectively as feedback screeched through the auditorium. 

“You are the dizzzasters, we are the management,” Beezulbub intoned straight into the microphone. “Now you had better end the world by Friday so that I don’t miss chicken finger day in the cafeteria.”[6]

“Now, now,” Gabriel said, from a more appropriate distance, into the other microphone. “Don’t let my...colleague make you think we aren’t taking this seriously. This is an exciting chance to step up. Angels, I am counting on you to synergize effectively with your demonic counterparts and use those shepherding skills to gently usher the world to irreversible destruction and total annihilation on an efficient timescale.”

“Whatever,” Beezulbub rolled their eyes. “Let’s just open the scenario packet.” 

With a muffled fwump, a large manila envelope materialized on the table in front of Beezulbub and Gabriel. 

“Count down with me angels!” Gabriel shouted, picking up the envelope. 

“Five, four, three--” Gabriel started, and the angels dutifully joined in. Aziraphale, caught off guard and a little miffed by all the fanfare, did not. He glanced over at Crowley who was looking back at him with unconcealed curiosity. 

“Fuck this,” Beezulbub said. “We’re the ones who came up with the scenario, so we’ll just tell you what it is. It’s pestilence again.” 

*** 

A collective groan arose from the assembled occult and ethereal entities milling about on the auditorium floor. Crowley allowed his head to thunk on the desk in front of him. The cautious hopefulness that he had felt when the angel across from him had turned out not to be a total prick evaporated like a snowball in, well, here. 

“We’ve had pestilence the past three times!” Hastur spat from his post at CENTRAL SUPPLY. 

“Yeah,” Ligur shouted from DEVOURING & DISMEMBERMENT. “What’s wrong with starting with War? What’s the point of spending the whole bleeding 20th century setting up Mutually Assured Destruction if it don’t result in Destruction!” 

Gabriel’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. “Pestilence is a classic,” he snapped. 

“I hate to say this,” Beezulbub buzzed into the other microphone. “But the archangel izzz right. Pestilence is going to be here in a few minutes and I expect that you will all show them rizzzzpect” they buzzed. 

Another groan went up from the crowd. 

“Pestillence is coming here?” Shouted a bulky angel in a “Celestial Athletics Class of ‘00 Lacrosse” t-shirt from GENERAL SMITING AND DIVINE WRATH. “Gabe, you could have warned me. I’m going to have to completely change the armor design for the Heavenly Host now. You know we can’t fit masks over their battle helmets.” 

“After Pestilence comes, there won’t even be anyone left to dismember!” Ligur complained loudly, and threw his own high vis jacket down onto his desk in a fit of pique. 

“Shut up you foul, ungrateful lizard,” Gabriel roared back. “We all know that War follows Pestilence, you’ll get your turn when it’s your turn!” 

Crowley shook himself with a low moan and began rapidly sorting through papers on his desk. “Shit,” he said under his breath. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” 

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale whispered. 

“I was really sure it was going to be War this time.” Crowley hissed back.”I was expecting mass troop movements! Distributing supplies by train! Gosh, now all that’s right out.” He threw down a stack of papers in defeat. “I’m sure Beez will have set up the simulation so that the Hordes and Host will get sick before they even make it to the battlefield and when I can’t find a way around that, they’ll have my scales for breakfast.” 

“Doesn’t sound very nutritious,” Aziraphale muttered, low enough so that Crowley was the only one who could hear him above the rising din in the auditorium. “You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” 

Crowley stared up at him blankly. It felt like something sharp had suddenly lodged in his throat, the same prickly object that had made itself known at the warm and unexpected press of Aziraphale’s thumb against his skin. “You’re funny,” Crowley said at last. “I’ve never met an angel who’s fun--”

A bolt of lightning, followed almost immediately by the crack of thunder, lanced through the center of the auditorium. Ringing silence fell in its wake, disturbed only by the lingering scream of an Eric, now reduced to a pile of ashes, who had had the misfortune of being the target of Gabriel’s impromptu call to order. 

“We will have SILENCEZZZZZZ” Beezulbub shouted. 

“If you don’t like it,” Gabriel said through his teeth, “then just end the world faster and it will be over sooner, mkay? Now Eric here--” a new Eric materialized at Gabriel’s shoulder, “will be handing out your masks and cleaning supplies.” 

“You will wear the maskzzzz,” Beezulbub buzzed, “every time Pestilence is in the room. You will clean your dezzzks every hour. And you will not fraternize.” Beezulbub snapped their fingers and instantly space rippled and bent until all the desks were situated six feet apart from their closest neighbors. “Remember this isn’t a fun chance to rip out some angel’s feathers--” 

“--or shove your holiness in the face of the damned,” Gabriel continued. 

“Hate each other on your own free time,” Beezulbub said, “right now we are professionalzzz and we have an Apocalypse to run!” 

“It’s not even real!” yelled someone from the back of the room. 

“Who zzzzaid that?” Beezelbub shouted. 

The silence was deafening. 

“We will not tolerate,” Beezelbub said into the utter lack of sound, “any kind of sass, lip, backtalk, or complaint from any demon or any angel in this room. If you are not willing to take this simulation seriouzzzly, we are more than willing to take your discorporation very seriouzzzly indeed.”

“Just imagine,” Gabriel interjected, “what would happen if The Almighty caught us unprepared for The Real One, huh? If our smiting was not up to snuff? What would Satan say if your tempting was insufficiently terrible? Senior senior leadership--” here Gabriel gestured upwards and Beezelbub gestured downwards-- “really cares that we get this right people. At any time we are supposed to be ready to have a showdown of epic proportions, and you can’t have a show without--” 

“WAR” shouted the muscular angel from GENERAL SMITING with the jubilant confidence of a failing student encountering one familiar question on an otherwise incomprehensible test. 

Gabriel looked briefly derailed, then recovered with a sigh. “No, Sandalphon, you can’t have a show without _practice_. As the humans say, never do something once when you can do it every thousand years and make it even better, isn’t that right Your Insectship?” 

“I don’t care,” Beezulbub said flatly. “Just get it done and we won’t have to do it again for another millenia.” They dropped the microphone with a screech and flung themselves into a throne of bones which had conveniently materialized behind the high table. 

“Well you heard Their Awfulness!” Gabriel grinned down at the assembled legions of the damned, hosts of heaven, and various and sundry other beasts and creatures, occult, ethereal, or otherwise. “Get cracking creamsicles. A global pandemic isn’t going to start itself!” 

\----------  
NOTES

1. Gabriel had come back from the last Apocalypse Simulation with a hot pink garment that loudly proclaimed in neon orange lettering: “I went all the way to hell and back and all I got was this lousy shirt.” If Aziraphale ever had any intention of working out, the sight of Gabriel in this shirt (now sans sleeves) lifting weights in Heaven’s VIP gym would have been enough to put him off of exercise forever.  
↩

2. Even in Hell, some days are more Hellish than others. .↩

3. When Eric whistled to himself, he did so more literally than most. ↩

4. Being a demon, of course Eric would have bristled at even the implication that he might be capable of reverence.↩

5. Aziraphale might have been interested to know that Crowley himself had answered this question in the affirmative in 1970, when Beezulbub casually asked him to explain the Vietnam War over cocktails at Hell's annual Unholiday Party. Crowley had never been to South East Asia or within tempting distance of a US president, but that hadn't stopped him from listing "Vietnam" on his official reports for the better part of a decade.↩

6. Nominally chicken, most definitely fingers. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I shamelessly ripped the Pirates of the Carribean joke from The Good Place. 
> 
> This story will update regularly, probably on a weekly to every other week basis. 
> 
> If you’re waiting for more, check out my first fic to feature footnotes here: Or [Chapter and Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593145). 
> 
> Or [stop by on tumblr](https://princip1914.tumblr.com) for more cursed (™) content.


	2. Postscript

This story makes oblique and satirical references to many things related to COVID. I have tried to list most of them here. This chapter will remain the final chapter during the duration of the posting of this story. If any new COVID references are added to the story as it moves from draft to completion, I will add them. Notes here may be spoilers for the rest of the story. References include: 

\- Universal masking policies in places of employment

\- Cloth masks

\- Lack of or ill fitting personal protective equipment

\- Maintaining social distancing of 6 feet between workstations

\- Cleaning workstations/microphones/shared objects multiple times an hour 

\- Online databases tracking disease cases

\- Deaths from secondary causes (i.e. people who don’t go to the hospital out of fear of COVID and die of something else preventable) - only very lightly discussed 

\- Evictions/poverty due to lockdowns and economic challenges - only very lightly discussed

\- Young people partying and leading to high rates of infection 

\- Asymptomatic transmission 

\- The state of Florida

\- Lack of / lack of access to testing for disease 

-Vaccine trials


End file.
